Saving Private Curtis
by Belle McGrath
Summary: I have no idea how long I've been here. My sanity feels like it has been years, but the small part of my brain that's still rational tells me it's been about a month. I'm not sure how long I'll be here. Either the American troops come and save me, or I die. I don't know which one I'd like better. - One-shot about Soda in Vietnam


**A/N: Hey guys! Here is a one-shot I've been meaning to write for a very long time, but I'm not someone who likes to work on several fanfictions at a time, so I was waiting until I was finished with my last fanfiction, Breathe, before writing this one. If you haven't read my previous fanfictions, The Last Sunset and Breathe, I encourage you to check them out! :)**

 **This one-shot was largely inspired by the ending scene of the movie Captain Phillips, starring Tom Hanks, which I'm pretty sure you can find on YouTube. I just wanted to make you guys aware of that because the ending of this fanfiction is very similar to the ending in that movie (pretty much identical) and I don't want to say take all the credit for it :)**

 **Special thanks to the amazing Shattered Aura for the feedback throughout the entire writing process of this one-shot! If you haven't read her fanfictions and her one-shots, you're missing out on something precious! Make sure to check out her profile and fanfics! She's my best friend and one of the best fanfiction writers I've ever had the chance to meet.**

 **Please let me know what you think about this by leaving me a beautiful review! I love reading all of your reviews and I love replying to them also! I sometimes forget to answer, but I try to be as consistent as possible about that! Enjoy! Stay gold. x**

XxX

I have no idea how long I've been here. My sanity feels like it has been years, but the small part of my brain that's still rational tells me it's been about a month. I don't know whether it's daytime or night time. I can't tell them apart anymore. There are no windows in the cabin where I'm being kept. The only thing that tells me what time of day it is is when my captors give me food. That is, if they don't forget, which happens more often than not, judging by how hollow my cheeks are and how protruding my rib cage is. Only one Vietcong who's keeping me here speaks English, the others only understand Vietnamese, and the English one isn't here very often. I used to look forward to the English one being there, since he's the only one I can communicate with. I know better now. The only time the English one is around is when they're questioning me. That's when they torture me.

My cell stinks so badly I make myself gag. I keep one corner of the room to sleep and another to relieve myself, but the room still smells strongly of puke, urine and excrement. It's pitch black in here, but I don't need light to know just how badly bruised I am. Moving around is good enough to remind me of that. The bamboo stick they use to hit me is the one to blame for these. I have burn marks on my arms and my legs from the hot iron they used when they tried to find out where was our base camp. That was one of the worst times. I screamed so hard that my throat burned for days after that. There's a sharp pain in my side every time I move or breathe. I don't know much about stuff like this, but I'm pretty sure one of my ribs is cracked or broken. I have deep cuts and scrapes on my wrists and my ankles from the chains and the ropes. The wounds are still open and very disgusting-looking. Pus is leaking out of the deepest one. I've been feeling hot all over in the last few days. I think I'm getting sick, but I'm not really sure why. What's left of my clothes is mostly filthy and blood-stained.

From what I can tell, I'm the only prisoner here. I have no idea why they're keeping me here, alone. I think they might be transferring me to a bigger prison up in North Vietnam soon, but I'm not sure. All I hear through the door is some occasional mumbling in Vietnamese, which I don't understand to save my life. I'm not sure how long I'll be here. Either the American troops come and get me, or I die. I don't know which one I'd like better. I'm pretty sure I don't have much time left.

XxX

I wake up from my feverish sleep to the sound of people screaming, both in Vietnamese and English. I'm not quite sure what's going on, but there seems to be a lot of commotion. I hear loud booted footsteps coming closer, a clatter of keys and suddenly, the door to my cell bursts open and a big Vietcong soldier bursts in. He looks very angry and restless. I know what this means. I instinctively try to cower away from him in a corner, to snuggle so close to the wall that I somehow could disappear, my heart pounding in my ears and I let out a small panicked noise, but there's no use. He yells something in Vietnamese, which I don't understand. He wraps my neck in a headlock with his strong arm and with his other hand, wraps a piece of cloth around my mouth and releases me just to tie it tightly behind my head. He wraps it so tightly that the piece of cloth digs into my cheeks, preventing me from speaking altogether. I panic. They usually bring me out to torture me, but they have never used a gag before. I try to resist against him, but he grabs my forearm and yanks me to my feet as easily as if I was a rag doll.

His grip is so hard on my arm I'm pretty sure it'll bruise later. I haven't eaten in days, and my knees are so weak I can barely hold myself up. The Vietcong keeps yanking on my arm as I stumble out of the cell behind him, struggling to follow him in his footsteps, pain gripping my entire body. I know I'm going to get it again, so I make a weak attempt at struggling, at twisting my arm out of his grasp, but I'm no match for him. He drags me into the bigger room, the one where they usually take me to question me, and drags me towards the single chair on one edge of the room. This is the chair they tie me up to when they beat me up, recognizable by the drying spots of blood on the floor around it. My blood. There's a table in the middle of the room and all the Vietcongs are gathered around it, speaking to each other in low voices. The guard who's holding me attempts to make me sit down in the chair, but I'm not about to give up so easily. I start thrashing as violently as my weak body allows me, struggling to get away from the chair where I suffered so much, but the guard won't have it. He pushes me unexpectedly and I fall face first on the floor, he grabs my arm, twists it behind my back and lifts it up, so sharply and fast that I feel something popping out in my shoulder.

I scream into the gag. I usually try to suppress my screams, so I don't give them the satisfaction they want, but I can't keep it in this time. There's an agonizing pain in my shoulder, so painful that my shoulder feels like it's on fire. I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I try to curl my arm around myself, but the soldier is still holding my arm up. To make it even worse, he yanks me back up by that arm, making me scream again. I stumble, dark spots clouding my vision. The soldier takes the opportunity of me being completely blinded by pain to throw me on the chair unceremoniously. He grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back, sending even more searing pain in my shoulder and in my side, if that was even possible. I feel my hands being tied behind my back with ropes, and I groan as the ropes tighten painfully on the wounds on my wrists. I slump on the chair in a weak attempt at making my side hurt less, but it just makes the pain in my shoulder worse. Something's wrong with it, but I can't tell what. I focus on keeping as still as possible, trying to blink away the spots blurring my vision.

I look up from my spot on the edge of the room, expecting to see one of them with a bamboo stick, ready to hit me, but everyone is still around the table, paying no attention to me whatsoever, the big guard still next to me. I notice that the English one is there too, which could only mean that I'm gonna be tortured again, but then I remember hearing English voices from outside. I listen carefully, and I hear them again. Deep voices, speaking to each other from outside the wall, speaking English in an American accent. They've come to rescue me. But what's keeping them from coming in?

I try to ask the English one what's going on, but the gag keeps me from pronouncing anything and my voice just comes out as mumbling. I try to spit the gag out of my mouth to be able to speak, but it's tied too tightly. I mumble louder, to try to get their attention.

"Naslund!" the English one yells in his strong accent. "I thought I told you to keep our prisoner quiet!"

I suddenly feel a white-hot pain on my left cheek and I let out a strangled cry as I turn my head away from the pain. I feel something warm trickling down my cheek and I see from the corner of my eye that the guard next to me has pulled out a knife. He yells something at me in Vietnamese that probably means to shut up, because when I keep quiet, he takes my shirt sleeve in his hand and uses it to clean my blood off his knife and puts it back into his belt.

I hear the Vietnamese screaming at each other until the English one yells at them really loudly, probably to shut up or something, because they all go real quiet all of a sudden. Everything's quiet for a few seconds and then he turns to me. This can't be good.

"They're gonna kill us, boy," the man says in his thick accent, walking closer to me. I remain quiet, too scared to say the wrong thing. I learned the hard way what happens when you don't answer with what they wanna hear. He leans into me and I flinch, thinking he's going to hit me, but he just reaches around my face and unties the gag. I look at him in confusion. Why would he do something to help me after telling me this?

"Have you heard any of the plans we were talking about out here?" he asks, his face inches away from mine. I make myself as small as possible, struggling to get away from him.

"No," I answer honestly. The man slaps me across the face, so hard my head flips to the side.

"DON'T LIE TO ME, BOY!" he screams right into my ear, making me cower away from him.

"Please, I swear, I didn't," I say, keeping my face down, too scared to look at him. The soldier grabs my face harshly and forces me to look at him.

"I need you to listen carefully, boy," he says in a threatening voice, his foul breath poisoning my nostrils. "We're all gonna die because of you, and I refuse to die in vain, do you hear me? They're gonna rescue you and you're gonna go and tell all of our plans to the Americans, and we can't have that now, can we?" I didn't say anything, too scared of what was coming next.

"There's only one thing to do, boy. We're gonna have to kill you."

"No," I say, the words "kill you" resonating in my ears louder and louder, feeling my heart pounding in my chest in absolute terror. "Please, I'll do anything…"

The man releases my face from his hand and turns away from me. He starts yelling something in Vietnamese and all the soldiers pick up their guns. I pull at my restraints and squirm into my seat, attempting to free myself, which only results in more pain in my shoulder and my side. Terror mixes in with panic. I'm gonna be killed mere seconds before the Americans come and get me. What the hell are they waiting for anyway?

"HELP!" I yell at the top of my lungs, hoping one of the American soldiers outside will hear. "HELP!"

They surround me in a half-circle, each one of them with a big machine gun. The guard next to me produces a blindfold.

"No, no, please, please don't," I beg, trying to find mercy in a merciless guard. "Please, I'll do anything, just don't kill me, please…"

The guard ignores me and ties the blindfold tightly around my head, and I'm completely blinded. I pull at my restraints again in a vain attempt at getting away, blood pumping in my ears, beads of sweat running down my forehead, trying to see in vain through the blindfold.

"Please, please…" I beg, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I suddenly think of Ponyboy and Darry, and I wonder vaguely if they will get my body with a flag on top of my coffin, like all the others. I see Ponyboy's tear-stained face, Darry's helpless look. I can't do this to them. I have to live. I wanna go home to them. I _have_ to go home to them.

My blood freezes in my veins and I tug as hard as I can on the ropes on my wrists, ignoring the pain, then I hear the guns being loaded.

"I DON'T WANNA DIE!" I yell at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly, I hear a loud bang and several gunshots being fired. I wince and stiffen and scream and pull at my restraints at the same time, my heart feeling like it's gonna pop out of my chest. I feel something warm and wet splatter all over my face and clothes and I cringe, thinking I'm dying and suddenly, everything is quiet. Too quiet.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING!" I shout, fighting with the blindfold on my face, sobbing. "PLEASE HELP ME!"

"Soda?" I hear a strangely familiar voice call out. I stop fighting altogether, completely shocked.

"S-Steve?" I call.

I feel someone's presence next to me. Someone places his hand behind my head and I instinctively flinch. That person takes off my blindfold and suddenly, I can see again. The first thing I see is the face of the English Vietcong, lying on the floor in his own blood, his eyes open and lifeless, staring back at me. I gasp, pushing myself with my feet, struggling to get away from the terrifying vision.

"Soda, it's me, it's Steve," Steve says, leaning in front of my face so I can no longer see the Vietcong. "You're safe now, okay?" he adds, squeezing my shoulder in an attempt to reassure me, but he squeezes my injured shoulder. I hear myself moan in pain, not even able to move my shoulder away because of the tight bindings. Steve jerks his hand away.

"What is it?" he asks, alarmed.

"M-my sh-shoulder… It ai-ain't right…" I stutter, trying to hold my tears in as I notice about ten other American soldiers behind Steve.

"I ain't gonna touch it, alright?" Steve answers, holding his hands up. "I'm just gonna untie your wrists, okay?"

I nod. Steve disappears behind me and proceeds to free my hands from the ropes. An older soldier steps up in Steve's place in front of me.

"Private Curtis, I'm Captain Watson. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?" the captain says. I can only nod. It's as if I've lost the ability to speak all of a sudden. I feel the pressure around my wrists loosen and the ropes coming off. The pain in my side dulls considerably, but not the one in my shoulder. I slowly get up off the chair and on my shaky knees. The captain moves away so I can take a step, but as soon as I try to walk, my weak knees give out and I crumble to the floor. I catch myself with my hands just fast enough to avoid falling on my face. Big mistake.

The sharp pain in my shoulder is so unbearable that my body lurches forward and I start emptying the contents of my stomach, which isn't much, to tell you the truth. Just a little bit of bile. I dry heave for a few seconds until I finally am able to stop, shaking, barely holding myself up with my good arm.

"Lie down for a minute, alright? Just roll onto your back," Captain Watson says. Steve and him both bend forward to support me as I let myself fall on my back.

"I'm just gonna take a look at your shoulder, okay?" Captain Watson adds. I nod apprehensively. He lifts up my torn sleeve and I flinch when he delicately touches my shoulder.

"The bone is out of place," Steve notices. I roll my head to the side to look at my shoulder. He's right. One of the bones in my shoulder is protruding in a very awkward angle.

"It's dislocated," Captain Watson says. "We're gonna have to pop it back in."

I look at him, fear gripping me as he grabs my arm. I instinctively try to jerk my arm away, but his grip is firm.

"It's only gonna hurt for a second," Captain Watson says. I brace myself, ready to feel the pain. The captain lifts up my arm in a specific manner and painfully pulls on it. I let out a strangled cry of pain and suddenly, I feel the bone popping back into place and the pain in my shoulder dulls considerably. I let out a loud sigh of relief as the captain lets go of my arm.

"Is that better?" Captain Watson asks. I nod slowly, still unable to talk. My heart is pounding in my chest and I'm not really sure why. The smell of warm blood in the cabin makes my stomach do somersaults.

"Alright, let's get you up," Steve says.

I feel Steve's hands on both of my arms and I feel myself being pulled onto my feet. I know these are American soldiers, but I still flinch every time someone touches me. I can't help it. Steve takes my arm and wraps it around his shoulder, and I lean almost all of my weight on him, my knees shaking too hard to be able to support myself.

I stumble a few steps as we walk out of the cabin. I try not to look and the Vietcong's bodies on the floor, but I can't help it. All my tormentors lying there, covered in blood, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. I try to take my eyes off of them, but it's like I'm hypnotized or something.

"Almost there, buddy," Steve says and he half-guides, half-carries me out of the shack, out into the sun.

I wince, not used to the light anymore. I can't see anything, so I trust Steve in guiding me to the truck, hearing the other soldiers's footsteps following us. I hear a door open and I feel myself being lifted off the ground and settled on a seat. The light dims suddenly and I'm able to see something. I'm sitting in the back of an army truck, and Steve is sitting next to me as the other soldiers pile in. Soon, I feel the rumbling of the motor beneath my feet and we start moving, away from the hellhole I lived in for a whole month. Memories start flooding back of all the pain, all the hopelessness and finally, the face of the English Vietcong, dead in his own blood. I suddenly start shaking.

Steve hands me something and it takes a minute for me to notice it's a water gourd. Water. I think the last time I had water was three days ago. With water so close, I realize just how thirsty I am. I pick it up but my hand is shaking so much I can barely hold it up to my mouth. I try to get a grip of myself, to stop shaking, to take deep breaths, but I can't help it.

"Here, I'll help you" Steve says. He puts his hands over mine to steady them and brings the gourd up to my mouth. I drink so fast that I end up choking, but I don't mind. I just keep drinking. Suddenly, Steve pulls it away from me.

"Easy there, buddy. We don't want you getting sick. You can have more later."

I feel really weak all of a sudden. It's like I suddenly realize how long it's been since the last time I ate. I'm feeling sort of light-headed, barely realizing that fifteen minutes ago, I was a finger away from being killed. I can barely hold my head up, so I lean onto Steve's shoulder and rest there. Steve pulls his arm out from between us and wraps it protectively around me and rubs my arm as I try to stop shaking.

The ride takes about an hour. Every fifteen minutes or so, Steve gives me a few sips of water. He keeps a firm hold on me the entire time. I know it kinda looks weird, but I'm grateful that he does it. I'm not sure I'd be able to keep myself together without him.

An hour later, the path we're driving on clears out and we drive up to the American military base. We pull up in front of the hospital wing. Steve helps me up and we both step out of the truck, him holding me up as he carries me into the hospital wing.

The hospital wing is a big room, where all the injured soldiers are lying on beds, some wrapped in bandages, others just pale-looking, all of them either fast asleep or being spoon-fed by nurses. Steve takes me to a bed surrounded by curtains for privacy, where two nurses are already waiting. I guess Captain Watson has already informed them that I would be here.

"Private Sodapop Curtis?" a nurse asks.

"Yes," Steve answers.

"Please come in," the same nurse orders. Steve helps me into the improvised cubicle. "Have a seat," the nurse adds. Steve helps me sit down on the side of the white-sheeted bed.

"Thank you, Private Randle," says the nurse. Steve nods at her.

"I'll come back in an hour to check on you, okay?" Steve says. I don't know what to say. I want him to stay but the words I wanna say get caught up in my throat, so I just nod. Steve walks out of the cubicle and the second nurse pulls the curtains behind him. There's a bunch of medical supplies on some kind of trolley next to the bed and I'm not sure what they're for.

"I'm Nurse Barbara Willis, I'll be taking care of you today," the first nurse says in a gentle tone. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

The second nurse gives her a pair of some kind of round scissors and Nurse Barbara starts cutting through my bloody t-shirt. Only then do I process that she asked me a question.

"Can you talk?" she asks. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Y-Yeah, I-I'm okay," I answer, trying in vain to stop stuttering.

"Are you sure? You don't look okay…" Nurse Barbara says. She finishes cutting through my shirt and she takes it off of me so my chest is bare. I look at the fragments of my shirt in her hands, realizing just how dirty and bloody it is. I'm in such a daze that I don't even hear the question Nurse Barbara asks me.

"W-what?" I ask, detaching my eyes from my shirt to look at her.

"Are you in any pain right now?" the nurse repeats.

I try to focus, but my brain seems to be working in slow motion. Where to start? It seems like everything in my body hurts.

"U-um…" I start. I vaguely try to decide which part of my body to show the nurse and I end up pointing vaguely at my rib.

"Right there, on your side?" Nurse Barbara asks. I nod, feeling myself getting worked up. "Okay, let me see it real quick. Can you lift up your arm a little bit?

I lift up my arm a little bit so the nurse can gain access to my side. She puts her hand on my side and presses down slightly, making me wince. I feel tears welling up in my eyes from the pain.

"Does that hurt?" the nurse asks. I nod vigorously, feeling my breath catch up in my throat. "A little bit?"

"A little bit," I answer, my voice strangely more high-pitched than usual.

"Okay, go ahead and put your arm down."

I do as she says, struggling to get ahold of myself. I don't realize just how worked up I really am until Nurse Barbara places both of her hands around my face, forcing me to look at her.

"Sodapop, I need you to look at me," she says. My eyes divert to hers and suddenly, she's all I can look at. It's like she's my lifeline. "I need you to calm down, and I need you to breathe," she adds, gently but firmly.

She takes deep breaths, as though showing me how to breathe and I copy her actions, my breaths coming out more shaky than hers.

"There you go, deep breaths, there you go…" she encourages me. "Very good, awesome… Now, I want you to relax your arm. We're gonna get your pressure and your heart rate and then we're gonna take your temperature. Make sure you're breathing, okay?"

"Okay," I answer, feeling myself slowly snapping out of my daze.

The second nurse, who seems to be Nurse Barbara's assistant, puts two fingers on my neck and starts counting, looking at her watch. The only thing I can focus on is breathing. I feel like a child who's trying hard to imitate a new thing it's mother showed it. The nurse removes her fingers from my neck, grabs a thermometer on the table next to her and places it under my tongue.

"I want you to keep breathing, okay?" Nurse Barbara reminds me. I nod, my mouth still closed around the thermometer. There's a few minutes of silence as Nurse Barbara takes my pressure on my arm and pokes and prods at a few bruises. The second nurse takes out the thermometer and Nurse Barbara focuses on the cut on my cheek.

"What happened to your cheek?" she asks. I'm silent for a moment, trying to understand what she means. "Sodapop, can you tell me what happened to your cheek?"

She produces a compress and applies it on my cheek as I try to make sense of what she's saying. Then, everything comes to my mind in a flash. The knife slashing my cheek. The pain in my shoulder. All the hours and hours of being beaten and burned and screamed at. All the times when I'd wish they'd kill me instead. All the times I had woken up alone, in the dark. All the vomiting, the pain, the fear. The dead bodies and the disgusting smell of warm blood. There's no words for it. I can't explain it.

"I-I… Uh… I… Th-they um… I s-said…" I try, my stuttering getting worse than ever before.

"It's okay, take your time… Take your time…" Nurse Barbara says in a soothing voice.

"Captain Watson told me his left shoulder was dislocated when he called," the other nurse says to Nurse Barbara, reading a report on a chart. "He's clearly in psychological shock. There are several welts, bruises and burns on his back and limbs and he has a broken rib. He has a 102.4 fever, presumably caused by infection, infected wounds on his wrists and ankles and a 2-inch laceration on his left cheek…"

I don't know why, but for some reason, for every injury the other nurse lists down, I remember every single moment of torture that caused them. I feel tears welling up in my eyes, my throat tighten and tears start to spill on my cheeks without me being able to stop it. All of a sudden, I start crying really hard, almost hysterically, without being able to stop it.

"It's okay…" Nurse Barbara says to me.

I take in a deep breath, but it comes out as loud hiccups.

"Okay, okay…" I repeat to myself, trying to pull myself together, trying in vain to get over this sudden gripping fear. Nurse Barbara places her hands on either side of my face again, making me look at her for the second time.

"I want you to look at me and I want you to breathe," she tells me more firmly. "Do you understand?"

Something about her tone soothes me just a little bit.

"Y-yeah, okay… okay…" I say, trying to convince myself at the same time.

"Very good. You're doing great, okay?" the nurse says in an encouraging tone.

I take a deep breath in once another attempt to pull myself together, but it comes out as hiccups. I'm so focused on my breathing I don't hear what she just asked me.

"What?" I ask.

"Did all the blood come from your cheek, right here, on your face?" she repeats, motioning to the splatters of blood on my arms. I look down at the splatters in confusion, wondering where it comes from.

"W-well, n-no not all of it," I answer, and that's when I remember. The blindfold, the bang, the guns fired, the wet, warm splatter on me. This isn't my blood. This is Vietcong blood.

"That's not mine…" I answer, feeling myself panicking again, wanting this blood off of me and fast.

"Okay, alright, look at me," Nurse Barbara says. I look at her all I can do is stare. It's like her word is God. "We're gonna lay you down, okay?" she adds.

"Okay yeah," I answer. That sounds like a good idea, because to tell you the truth, I'm starting to feel light-headed.

"I want you to lay down, nice and gently," she instructs. Both nurses support me as I flip my legs on the bed. Both nurses have their hands on my back, which doesn't stop my ribs from hurting painfully. I let out a strangled moan.

"You're okay, I've got you… I've got you…" Nurse Barbara says. I finally settle down on the pillow and I let out a second moan of pain.

"There you go…" the nurse says. "Sodapop you're safe now, okay?"

"Thank you," I tell her. I don't know why I do. I'm not really sure of anything I'm saying. I feel tears streaming down my face and realize I'm starting to cry again. Relief is flooding over me and I can't help it.

"You're welcome," she answers. I don't know why, but that simple phrase makes me even more relieved and I start crying even harder.

"Thank you," I tell her again.

"You're welcome," she answers again.

"Do my brothers know?" I ask her, not even bothering to wipe away the tears from my cheeks.

"Your brothers know you're safe, and you'll be able to go home to them as soon as you're taken care of," she answers. I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe. "Sodapop, I need you to breathe," she adds.

I try to take a deep breath, but my inhale comes out as hiccups and my exhale comes out as a loud sob.

"You are safe, and you are fine," Nurse Barbara says. I keep sobbing loudly without being able to stop. I don't even know why I'm crying anymore. I don't know whether it's because I'm relieved, scared, in pain, or anything. I don't know.

"It's gonna be okay… Everything's gonna be okay…" Nurse Barbara tells me, stroking my hair back in a comforting gesture.

It takes a very long time for me to calm down. I cry for what seems like hours until I'm finally able to stop. When I'm calm, the nurses get to work. They clean me down using sponges to take off the dirt and the blood, and they change me into a hospital gown of some sort. They tape my ribs, and tend to the wounds on my cheek and on my wrists and ankles. The second nurse inserts three IV's into my arms and I'm not really sure what they are. The second nurse must've noticed my weariness because she smiles at me reassuringly.

"One of the IV's just contain fluids to rehydrate you. The other is a standard antibiotic for the infection in your wounds and the last one is a mild sedative to help you get some rest," she explains. I'm not really sure I fully grasp what she says, but I'm grateful that she talks to me.

I feel something long and thin on my face and two little stubs enter my nose. It tickles a little bit, so I try to remove it, but Nurse Barbara takes my hand before I can touch the foreign object.

"It's okay, Sodapop. This is just an oxygen tube. It's gonna help you breathe, okay?" she explains. I nod as the second nurse pulls the covers over me and adjusts the pillow under my head.

I don't know if it's because of the sedatives or something else, but soon, I start relaxing. I start feeling really groggy and I yawn. I don't want to go to sleep yet, too scared that this is just a dream and I will wake up back into the cabin.

"Is this a dream?" I ask Nurse Barbara.

"This is very real, Sodapop," she answers. "It's all over now. You're safe."

I take her word for truth and I nod slowly. My eyelids droop as I struggle to stay awake.

"Go to sleep, Sodapop," she says. "We'll be there when you wake up."

As I'm slowly falling asleep, the sedatives getting the best of me, I suddenly have a thought for my brothers. My brothers. They're not gonna be assisting my funerals. I'm going home. I'm going home to them. I think of Ponyboy's dreamy, thoughtful face, standing in front of Darry at our doorstep in Tulsa when I walk home to them. It's over, I think. I'm going home. A single tear slips from my eye. I guess Nurse Barbara mistakes it for fear because right before I drift away into my drug-induced slumber, I hear her say:

"It's gonna be okay."

And I believe her.


End file.
